


prettier greens (just come home)

by almosthome



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15.20 Let Us All Down So Bad, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cas Does Not Go To Superhell For Being Gay, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Near Death Experiences, One Shot, Post-Canon Fix-It, i had to do something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:20:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27732940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almosthome/pseuds/almosthome
Summary: Dean is the one that wants what he can't have. So, in the aftermath of Castiel's sacrifice, he grieves.He’s hollow. Everything in him worth having gone with the angel in the trenchcoat. He’s empty. He’s in the Empty. He’s not sure there’s much of a difference.He prays for Cas to just come home. And when a hunt goes horrifically wrong, Cas does.God, do they have shit to work out.(But work it out they do.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Jack Kline & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 235





	prettier greens (just come home)

**Author's Note:**

> wow. i feel like i got a nail in the back watching that supernatural finale. well, i cracked my knuckles and got to work on this bad boy. this is how 15.20 should have ended in my opinion. so here you are. please be gentle with me. i am in such severe pain. 
> 
> alright enjoy!!

_ goodbye, dean.  _

He doesn’t get up. He watches the wall from which the ravenous, greedy sludge emerged to eat Castiel whole. He plays Cas’ game. He waits. 

His legs go numb. He doesn’t move. He waits. His breath comes from underwater. He doesn’t care. He waits. 

Cas is much better than him at waiting. 

_ goodbye, dean.  _

They were good at leaving each other. Sometimes with nothing, sometimes with all too much. They were even better at coming back. Cas is coming back. It becomes his mantra. Cas is coming back. Cas is coming back. 

_ what i want most, i can’t have.  _

He can have it. Cas can have anything he wants as far as Dean is concerned. Just so long as Dean can have Cas home. 

Even if the stupid son of a bitch wants  _ Dean _ \-- someone he already has, has always had, will always have--- it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that Dean is the last person worth dying for. It doesn’t matter if Cas isn’t here to finally,  _ finally _ take what’s always been his. 

Dean didn’t know there was enough left of him to make a home, but Cas talked about him like he couldn’t be anything else. Not anymore though. Never again if Cas didn’t just hurry up and come the fuck back. 

He’s hollow. Everything in him worth having went with the angel in the trenchcoat. He’s empty. He’s in the Empty. He’s not sure there’s much of a difference. 

_ what i want most, i can’t have. _

What about what Dean wants, huh? What if Dean only cares about the world because of Cas, too? Dean was faithless before him. Dean will be faithless after him. 

He finds his hands somewhere down his body. They do a jerking dance as he attempts to clasp them together. His prayers are half-formed, but they throw themselves out of his mouth like they can’t stand to sit in there one more lonely second. 

Dean knows the feeling.

“Cas,” he begs, voice a million miles away even to his own ears. He’s not here. He’s following Cas to nowhere. “Cas. C’mon, buddy. Please. I’m begging you. Don’t… don’t leave. I’m not--- I’m not leaving you. You know I’m not. So don’t you  _ dare _ leave me.” 

Nothing. No whoosh of wind that smells like linen and the very center of the earth. No ruffling of invisible feathers as they come to rest. No relief. Nothing. 

Dean is not a stranger to desperation. It doesn’t make it any easier to feel. 

He waits. He prays. He waits. He prays. 

He’s not sure when it really starts to sink in; when he starts to understand  _ goodbye, dean _ means  **_goodbye_ ** _ , dean _ . There is no discernible moment. There is only a discernible breaking. There is an uncertain getting to his feet. There is the hard slam of his fist against the unyielding wall; which strangely feels like nothing at all. Empty. Empty. Empty. 

Maybe he and Cas are too alike to make it work. 

Empty. Empty. Empty. 

Maybe Castiel loves him but can’t stand to be with him. Maybe Cas doesn’t want to come back.

Cas was wrong about him. Dean is selfish. Because he doesn’t care what Cas wants. 

His knuckles turn the strangest shade of blue. He keeps punching. The yellow wall goes red. It is a blur of purple between them.

Dean is the one that wants what he can’t have. 

“Dean! Hey, hey! What’s going on?” 

Cas is wrong. Happiness _ is  _ in the having. It’s in having the poor stupid bastard that made the mistake of loving you within arm’s distance. In having them safe. In having something inside you besides regret. Anger. Pain. Guilt. 

Grief.

“Dean, that’s  _ enough _ !” 

Sam is there; yanking him away from the wall that took Cas. Dean fights as he’s done his whole life; kicking and swinging and shouting. But it’s all been for nothing, hasn’t it? Because Cas is gone. And Dean is too. 

His younger brother manages to throw Dean’s flailing body down on the ground. It doesn’t hurt, but it stuns him enough to get him to stop. The breath, the last thing he had inside of him, leaves his chest. He stops. He stops fighting. Finally.

“Dean, look at me.” Sam snaps with the hand that’s not pinning Dean’s shoulder to the floor. The sound, sharp and grating right in front of his face brings him back to reality for a moment. Above him, Sam’s face is twisted in confusion and a visceral fear. His eyes rake over Dean’s face and bruised hand, trying to find an answer before he even asks,“What the hell happened?” 

_ goodbye, dean.  _

_ goodbye, dean _ happened. 

“Cas,” he croaks. “Cas is gone.” 

Dean watches as Sam’s face begins to echo his own; shifting from shock, confusion, denial, and finally pain. Of course. Castiel was Sam’s friend. This hurts him, too. 

But he’s not empty. Not like Dean. Dean, who is vaguely aware that Sam is gathering him up into a hug, trying to piece him back together through sheer pressure. Dean, who Sam half-walks half-drags to the living room just to deposit him in  _ Cas’ _ chair. It smells like clean linen and the center of the earth. From what feels like very far away, Dean’s chest aches. 

“I’ll… I’ll let you have some time alone. Call me if you need anything. I mean it.” Sounds of slow, heavy footsteps distancing and the creak of the bunker door. And with that, Dean is alone. Again. 

He’s been almost certain all these dragging years that there’s no such thing as destiny. But this heartbreak is a homecoming. Those angel dicks were right. He ends up skirting the prophesied sacrifice only to have this. This is the true end of the world. 

His hands find the scotch bottle without visual assistance. That glass cap shatters against the wood floor. It’s fine. He won’t need it. He drinks. He pulls as much as he can in a few swift swallows; reveling in the deep burn. Doesn’t stop until he’s choking on the stuff, and by then, a good quarter of it is gone. Good. 

By the time he’s finished, the ceiling is doing somersaults and Dean is clutching a trenchcoat he found slung over the kitchen table. It’s not Cas’ favorite one, so the smell of fresh linen and the center of the earth is weak. But Dean is a desperate bloodhound. He clutches it to his chest, careful not to spill any booze on the last real piece he has of heaven. 

He ends up spilling anyway. In a clumsy, drunken move, his elbow knocks over a bottle of Daniels onto the sleeve. It’s only horizontal for a moment but it still soaks the coat, and when Dean brings it again to his face, all he smells is himself. No Cas. 

_goodbye,_ _dean._

No, Cas. 

Unconsciousness swallows him with a sore throat. The last thing he hears is an angel blade he doesn’t recall picking up falling out of his hand. 

It hits the floor about the same time as he does. 

…………………… 

Dean doesn’t think it would matter if everyone else was still here. It doesn’t matter that he, Sam, and Jack are the last three people on earth. Dean would feel like alone regardless. Everyone could be alive and kicking for all he cares. But if Cas is gone, it doesn’t matter. And Cas _ is _ gone. 

It takes a few days for Dean to empty out the liquor stock of the bunker. But inevitably, he does. And he could get more. The nearest gas station is less than an hour out. Surely Sam and Jack wouldn’t begrudge him this one sad vacation. It may have been Cas’ choice but it was Dean’s sacrifice. He’s the one that lost. His brother and almost-son seem to understand. Or, Dean figures, they’re at least trying to. 

There’s no rest for the so-called righteous man, though. Just because Dean’s world was eaten in spastic muscles of black goo doesn’t mean everyone else ceases to have importance. He knows this. But he doesn’t feel like helping anyone. He feels like dying. 

Or like he already did. 

Still, it's a force of habit at this point-- moving on even when there’s nowhere to go. Walking when your legs have already given out. The family business. 

“I’m done drinking,” he announces rather unceremoniously to Jack and Sam the night he runs out of everything except his brother’s shitty hippy beer. Jack twists his brows in confusion at him; perhaps even unaware he’d been on a week-long bender in the first place. Sam’s face is full of pity so rich it could outbid a billionaire. Dean just clears his throat and says, “Least till we can get all this sorted out.” 

A heavy silence blankets the room before Sam lowers his eyes to the floor, says, “He was our friend, too, you know.”

Dean’s face starts burning so he chokes out, “Well, we all owe it to him to get this done then, don’t we?” and leaves before he can do something really embarrassing like start wailing like a widower at an open casket. 

It’s weeks of dead ends and screwed pooches. The three of them gathered around the table slumped up against lore books with nothing in them about how one goes about defeating  _ God _ . They are well and truly fucked. And Dean doesn’t have an angel hovering just a little close over his shoulder anymore to help them out. 

“You think he’s really gone?” Sam hedges one night (afternoon, morning, does it matter?) Jack has stepped outside for a breath of air that will surely be a little too still; a little too empty. Dean knows the feeling. “I mean, he’s come back before, right?” 

“I don’t know, Sam.” He smears a calloused hand down his face. Exhaustion presses him down into the chair. He’s so tired. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this tired. “I don’t think so.” 

Even though he doesn’t remove his palm from over his heavy eyes, he notices the all too familiar noise of Sam shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The way he always does as he gears up to bitch about something. Dean settles in, hoping Sam will think better of it and just shut his trap for once in his goddamn life. 

Of course, he’s not so lucky. 

“Look. I’m not saying this isn’t big, okay? You’re grieving and that’s completely normal. There’s nothing wrong with that. But something is different. Something’s off with you that’s never been off with you.” Sam pauses for a moment, letting out a sigh so deep that it seems to come from the ground before continuing, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’ve lost Cas so many times and you’ve never taken it this hard before. And I’m just trying to piece together  _ why _ .” 

Hm. If he wasn’t so empty, maybe Dean would feel his throat close or his heart start to race. Maybe he’d break into a cold sweat how he always did in the past when cornered about whatever complicated shit he felt for Castiel. But he  _ is _ empty. There’s nothing to barricade the truth from coming out. There’s nothing left to lose. 

“The stupid bastard told me he loved me,” he says, not looking up from the paper 

A pause. The creak of leather as Sam reclines back into his chair; a gesture of astonishment.  _ Yeah _ , Dean thinks bitterly.  _ Join the club _ . 

“And what did you say to him?” Sam asks, so quiet it’s barely audible. 

Dean pretends not to hear it. It’s not like there’s anything to tell, anyway. 

When he falls asleep at the table that night, Sam having retired to bed when he realized Dean’s refusal to answer was an answer within itself, he dreams more vividly than he has in days. 

_ They’re riding in the Impala (home, really. Hasn’t it always been?) It’s the earliest part of summer when all the living things practically trip over themselves in the ecstatic pursuit of coming back to life. Everyone in the car is all too familiar with that feeling. From the windows, they watch color eat the midwest in vivid, speedy streaks.  _

_ “I’ve seen prettier greens,” Castiel remarks abruptly from the backseat; gaze pointedly directed at Dean’s awaiting eyes in the rearview mirror. _

Dean tries not to sleep too much after that. 

……………… 

Jack, of course, is the best of them in the end. Sam’s smarts, Cas’ selflessness, and Dean managing to not fuck either of those two traits up while simultaneously keeping him alive. All in a day’s work. 

God will die as he designed all living things to do. And in the end, it’s true that the Winchester brothers aren’t killers; having spared his life just as he spared theirs so many years ago. Unfortunately for the writers of destiny, they don’t fit that convenient of an archetype. 

No, in the end, they’re just two broken boys tired of saving the world. 

Dean presses the keys into Sammy’s hand once Jack has left to attend to his heavenly duties. When Sam stares at him; a cocktail of confusion, surprise, and overwhelming concern on his face, Dean just shakes his head and gives what he hopes passes for a smile. It slips off his face as soon as he’s got his back turned. 

God, he’s so tired. 

He’s so tired that he passes out in the passenger seat not five minutes into the drive. His subconscious is kind (or cruel, depending on how you look at it) enough to provide him with a dream of blue. Oceans and skies. And eyes.  _ His _ eyes, of course. 

Sam doesn’t wake him ‘till long after they’re home. 

That lucky golden retriever bastard gets what he deserves when they hear a rap on the bunker door a few hours later. Dean is on his way to getting well and truly wasted in the name of celebration, but even through the blur of his drunken eyes, he recognizes Eileen’s face at the top of the stairs. 

Flailing like a gangly teenager all over again, Sam sprints to meet her. Her lips break into a smile so big and so sad it reminds him of---

Dean welcomes Eileen back in a stiff voice when he finds it and promptly marches to his room. 

Hope threatens him like the tip of a blade pressed against a bobbing throat. He just tries not to move. Turns out to not be so hard. Sam brings him meals and the occasional beer but mostly leaves him to his own devices; likely caught up in the ecstatic joy of having Eileen home. Dean isn’t lying when he says he doesn’t hold it against him. Hell, the kid deserves some happiness after all the shit they’ve been through. 

It becomes easier not to hope after a few months. He and Sam go on the occasional hunt, though the supernatural bastards just don’t seem much up to playing anymore. They become fewer and far between. Each hunt feels like their last. Not such a bad feeling. 

He does feel a little lonely when Sam tells him, though. 

“Eileen and I are thinking of settling down in Lawrence,” Sam says on the drive back; shooting for nonchalance and falling just a tad short. Dean removes his gaze from the road for just a moment to savor his little brother’s pathetic attempt at casualness. “Maybe get a one-bedroom close to town. We haven’t decided anything yet, though.” 

He rolls his eyes but replies earnestly all the same, “‘Bout time, man. I’m happy for you.” 

“Are you sure?” Sam demands; right on the heels of Dean’s reassurance. Ah, there’s the anxious and uncool kid he’s always known. He smiles a bit, all older sibling instincts. Still, Sam presses, “We can stay if you need us. I mean it.” 

“Nah.” Dean shrugs--- surprising himself with how okay he genuinely is with the idea. Being alone doesn’t scare him as it used to when he was younger. Huh. How’s that for growth? “I’ll be good where I am, you know me.”

“Yeah,” Sam mutters under his breath. “That’s why I’m worried.” 

Choosing to ignore that particular jab, Dean jokes, “I really hope Eileen can handle your bullshit with the same grace I have over the years.” 

Now it’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “So with none at all?” 

Dean just laughs sarcastically and cranks the music a little louder than is probably healthy. Neither of them complains. 

After he’s moved the last of the boxes to the shitty U-HAUL they’ve rented, he gives Eileen an awkward hug and an even more awkward nod. 

_ Take care of this bitch  _ he signs to her when she’s again at an arm’s distance.  _ He’s a handful. _

She smiles radiantly. Huh. Dean can definitely see why his little brother likes her so damn much.  _ I’m all over it _ . 

“Try not to get killed while I’m gone,” Sam says to him once Eileen’s settled herself into the moving car. “Y’know, when I’m not here to make any stupid deals to reverse your stupid decisions.” 

“Ah, ye of little faith,” Dean scolds. He punches him in the shoulder playfully but there’s some real force behind it. And for some reason, it’s reassuring that Sam isn’t swayed. Embarrassingly enough, it makes Dean choke up a bit; realizing how strong his baby brother has become. How good of a man he turned out to be. 

Dean may have done a lot of things wrong, but raising Sam was the one thing he did right. 

As if catching onto his realization, Sam’s face softens as he leans in for a hug. Dean just does his best to not sob like a mom sending her kid off to college as he holds on tight. 

“Thank you. For everything,” Sam barely gets out. “I love you, man.” 

Dean smiles, pats his back in what he hopes is a reassuring motion. “I know, Sammy. Love you, too.” 

Eventually, he lets go. Does the ceremonial slapping of the tailgate and watches patiently until that ugly monstrosity disappears from sight; leaving Dean the sole inhabitant of the bunker at last. It hurts, but it’s not as bad as he thought it would. It’s bearable. Unlike some other things which haunt him at night when there’s no one there to salt them away. 

Now that Jack is God, Dean can’t imagine that he would’ve left Castiel to rot in the Empty. In fact, he’s sure that the kid’s first act as heavenly father was to spring him from that literal hellhole. Which means Cas is free. He’s either on Earth or in Heaven; once again the poster boy of free will. 

And he’s not using his free will to come to Dean, which can only mean one thing: he regrets it. 

He must regret telling Dean he loves him. He must’ve had time to think down there; a place Dean failed to save him from. And during all that thinking, he must have realized that he was wrong--- that Dean is a selfish, angry, stupid bastard who doesn’t deserve to be saved from himself yet  _ again. _

How can Dean blame him for coming to his senses? It’s always been inevitable; the clear imbalance unavoidable. Dean, a boy who wakes slashing his knife first and asking questions later. And Castiel, an angel of the Lord who time and time again proved himself the best and most beautiful of all that is human. 

But Dean really is human. So he does blame Cas for leaving him. He can’t help it. He’s the worst like that.

Once a hunter, always a hunter; he keeps an eye on the papers; working when it calls for him. Still, whatever Jack is doing must be effective. Spirits don’t seem so angry these days. Shapeshifters don’t feel so up to shifting. But that doesn’t mean nothing at all happens anymore. 

He’s on a hunt just outside of Toledo; a relatively small vamp nest that won’t take more than two machetes and ten minutes to clear out. They’re all fresh-made bloodsuckers, too. Hardly what you’d call experienced fighters. 

And even alone, he should by all accounts be able to take them. It’s nothing new. Something he’s done a dozen times and counting. But he’s distracted; thinking about the angel in a trench coat that doesn’t love him anymore. 

Before he can get a grip, the last one still standing has got him by the shoulders and is throwing him into the support pole of the barn. He comes on with a surprising amount of strength considering his small stature. It’s this simple miscalculation that does him in.

While he manages to hack the vamp’s head off with a swift, lethal swipe (just like Bobby taught him) the snarling creature still manages to launch him against the beam. 

The first thing he registers is a piercing, awful pain that shoots down his spine. That pain then moves through him like a hand through a window to reach the front of his chest. Then an awful, breath-taking ache that he’s never felt before. Automatically, Dean’s hands fumble to the front of his shirt. He doesn’t have to look at them to know. They come away hot and wet. 

He can’t move. Even if he could bring himself to shuffle forward through the agony eviscerating his upper-half, he knows enough medical junk to realize that an attempt like that will have him bleeding out anyway. In other words, it would be a useless, excruciating gesture. 

_ Son of a bitch _ , he thinks as if from very far away.  _ Son of a fucking bitch. _

What an end to the great and glorious Dean Winchester. 

Tipping his head back to lean against the beam, he closes his eyes so the rays of sun that fall through the raggedy ceiling and down onto his face don’t blind him; just warm him like a gentle hand cradling his cheek. It’s comforting enough. It’s dying alone, of course. But it’s comforting enough. 

“Cas,” he finds himself saying without really thinking. And by the time he realizes he’s talking, he doesn’t really care enough to stop. He even smiles a little beside himself. “A nail to the back. How shitty is that. Can you believe this, Cas?” 

At first, he thinks he imagines the sound of flapping wings; an audible hallucination to make the passing on easier. Hell, he’s heard his mom and dad’s voice when he was dying before--- why would this be any different? 

But then the smell of clean linen and the center of the earth hits him. And he knows he’s not dreaming.

Castiel. Cas. Standing no more than a foot in front of him. Blue eyes intense where they meet his surely desperate gaze; thick brow furrowed in confusion, mouth turned slightly downward with dissatisfaction, stubble grown just a slight bit out of hand. 

And he is undoubtedly the most beautiful sight Dean has ever seen. 

“Cas,” he gasps out, ignoring the metallic taste which fills his mouth at the stress. As if his body has forgotten the impaling nail, he jerks forward on impulse just trying to get  _ closer _ . 

The involuntary groan of pain Dean gives seems to snap the angel to action. Tenderly cradling his shoulder, Cas carefully pulls him away from the post and lowers him gently onto the ground. 

“Shh, Dean,” he comforts. Dean tries to keep the whimpers pouring out of him in check, but  _ fuck _ does it hurt. “It’s alright.” 

And even hemorrhaging, Dean believes him. Because Cas is here. He’s here. 

He’s finally home. 

Once Dean’s detached from the nail, Cas tucks him into his lap; resting Dean’s head on his shoulder and slinging ridiculously bowed legs over one strong knee. Then, in a similarly smooth motion, he reaches a surprisingly warm hand to Dean’s back. 

In just an instant, the pain is gone. He’s whole again--- not as though he were healed but as if he was never hurt in the first place. Dean blinks, surprised in spite of himself. 

“There,” Cas says; voice a low, removed rumble. “Are you alright now, Dean?”

They’ve done this enough times for Dean to know this is the part where he’s supposed to pull away demanding personal space he doesn’t want, assure him that he is indeed fine and forget it ever happened in the first place. But it’s been something like a year and Dean is  _ not  _ fine.

So he chokes out, “No.” 

In a move so fast the transition is practically nonexistent, Castiel has them both up and standing again. The angel is frantically checking Dean’s body for evidence of further injury; stepping forward to feel with his hands when his eyes yield no results. He’s made it about as far as Dean’s waist (which kicks things off in his heart like you wouldn’t  _ believe _ ) before Dean thinks to stop him.

“That’s not what I mean,” he hisses, trying to pull back a little. But Cas isn’t having it. He just grips Dean’s ribs harder; evidently unconvinced Dean can stand on his own. Dean’s not so sure either. Still, he at least tries to further his case. “There’s not another scratch on me, man. I swear.” 

Cas tilts his head quizzically; a gesture that shifts a few pieces of wayward dark hair on his forehead. Dean tries not to stare. He really does. 

He fails. 

“I don’t understand,” Cas says slowly. The beautiful bastard still doesn’t shift away-- so close to Dean’s face that his minty breath is almost overwhelming. Vaguely, Dean wonders how it’s possible that he wants it still to be  _ closer. _ “How are you not fine, then?”

Oh. Huh. Dean should’ve expected that question. But he didn’t. Stalling, he licks his lips and tries to ignore the fact that Cas follows the movement with that inescapable stare. Honestly, he never considered the idea he’d have to put the pain of this past year into words. 

All that comes out is a small, pathetic, “You said you loved me.” 

Well, Dean was never well known for his eloquence. 

“Yes,” Cas agrees in an uncertain voice, eyes tightening at the memory. Chagrin crosses his face. As if abruptly remembering their close proximity, the angel attempts to pull away.

The shock is evident in his expression when Dean’s hands quickly come up on their own volition to immobilize his wrists where they rest gently on his hips. Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little surprised, too. It was instinct. Always has been. He’s just finally acting on it. 

His swallow seems to echo across the barn. “And then you left.” 

“No,” Cas disagrees, shaking his head. “I didn’t leave. I did what I had to do.”

“But you didn’t come back.” It’s so embarrassing, but Dean starts to genuinely  _ shake _ . Jesus, if only his dad could see him now. But he’s been empty for a year— hollowed out in Cas’ absence. Like if spring came in a day after a long, lifeless winter. Forgive him if Dean’s found his heart again just in time to feel it break. 

Amidst all this internal strife, the confusion on Cas’ face only intensifies. “I don’t understand. I was under the distinct impression you didn’t  _ want _ me to come back.” 

“What?” Dean demands, stiffening at the preposterous accusation. “How the hell could you think that?” 

“Dean,” he admonished quietly. Now it’s Cas’ turn to look all embarrassed. A gorgeous shade of pink flashes up to the angel’s face— jolting Dean out of his surprise for a brief moment. “I don’t blame you, but you didn’t give me a reason to think otherwise.” 

“Don’t you dare say that to me.” Again acting on their own volition, Dean’s hands shoot up to grasp the lapels of Cas’ trench coat in a desperate gesture. The anger that chased through him is shocking to them both if Cas’ wide eyes are anything to go by. He rattles him a little as he demands, “How the hell can you say that?” 

Then the angel’s face turns irritated— an expression Dean didn’t realize he had missed so much until he was seeing it again. 

“I told you I loved you and you said, and I quote ‘don’t do this Cas.’” He repeats in a pisspoor impression of Dean’s voice. Continuing in his usual somber cadence, he adds, “You clearly didn’t reciprocate, and I’m not upset with you for that. Of course not. But I wasn’t going to force myself on you when you didn’t want me.” 

_ Didn’t want him? _ The ridiculous concept is enough to startle Dean into a humorless huff of laughter. 

_ Hah _ ! As if such a thing were possible. As if Dean hadn’t spent the last ten or so years trying to carve the part of his chest that wouldn’t stop singing Castiel’s name out of him and only succeeding in burying it further. 

“I don’t see how you find this funny.” Ever the most serious person in any given room, Cas breaks him from his self-indulgent breakdown with an unfairly attractive frown. 

Yeah. He’s right. As quickly as the comedy came it fades. 

“I wasn’t telling you not to love me, you idiot,” Dean clarifies. Again, his pulse picks up impossibly faster. Still, the words fly from his mouth— desperate to be known. “I was telling you not to leave.” 

The pause that follows is as spacious as the gap between stars in a constellation. Then Cas must get the picture as he eventually grunts out an eloquent, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, just wanting to fill the awful silence. “ _ Oh. _ ”

“But there’s something I still don’t understand,” Cas eventually speaks after so long that Dean’s beginning to worry the angel has fled his vessel in panic. 

“What?” 

Then those insightful, perfect eyes are boring into his soul; so intense Dean feels the breath leave him in a rush. It’s the same look Cas gave him in the barn all those years ago— quirking his head while realizing Dean didn’t believe he deserved to be saved. He’s still reeling from the nostalgic rush when Cas speaks. 

“How _do_ you feel about me, Dean?” 

Rather than provide him with an eloquent verbal answer, Dean’s mind rushes with images. 

Cas dimly illuminated by the streetlights in the backseat of the Impala. Cas smiling so big it splits his cracked lips as he informs the room about bees. Cas’ muddy face twisted with desperation in purgatory. Cas in a field of sunflowers just outside Des Moines. Cas tilting his head in the bunker, in a dungeon, in a city, in a church, and 

Here. Right in front of him. He feels like his whole body is singing Castiel’s name. 

_ Cas. Cas. Cas.  _

He uses the strong grip he’s got on the angel’s trench coat with one hand and winds the other through the surprisingly soft and thick hair of Cas’ head. 

It’s not voluntary. It’s an ocean wave crashing against the shore. Closing his eyes, he pulls himself home into the love of his godforsaken life. 

Warm. Soft. He tastes like clean stream water and sunlight. Exactly how Dean knew he would. But where Dean’s lips meet Cas’, there is a heartbreaking stillness. Cas is not kissing him in return. So, heart cracking against his ribs, Dean starts to pull away with a chagrined resignation. 

“ _No_ ,” Cas snarls, making Dean jump in surprise. And on that note, the much stronger angel throws them back together— hands bruising where they draw in Dean’s waist. 

He doesn’t have to tell Dean twice. 

It’s not that Dean expected Cas to be a bad kisser but holy _ shit _ was he not expecting him to be this  _ good _ . Better than even Dean who’s had years of practice on his side. The angel just seems to have Dean’s body down to a precise science— meeting him with the exact intensity he wants without seemingly giving it a thought.

And the award for the best kiss of his goddamn life goes to… 

“Cas,” he gasps, pulling away to suck in as much air as he can. Undeterred, the angel continues to press his mouth against the electric skin of Dean’s neck. He feels like a hairdryer in a bathtub, Jesus  _ fucking _ Christ. 

“Hm?” Cas replies smugly, clearly aware of the effect he’s having on Dean. Cheeky son of a bitch. 

But this is serious. Dean’s shown it, but he still needs to say it. Regrettably, he has to let go of the white knuckle grip he has on Cas’ coat but he quickly readjusts it to cradle the other man’s cheek. Cas’ eyes look wild even in their confusion regarding why they had to stop. More alive than Dean has ever seen them. 

How much faster can Dean’s heart beat before it jumps out of his chest? 

“I love you,” he says, finally. Finally. It’s the easiest thing he could think to say, even easier than Cas’ name. It’s just true. It rings like a victory bell in the otherwise silent barn. “I should’ve told you sooner. I know that. But I’m telling you now. I  _ love _ you.” 

Dean takes back what he says earlier. Now Cas’ eyes  _ really _ are the most alive he’s ever seen them. 

The angel of Thursday’s wrenches them together with a near growl, hands flexed so strong that Dean’s sure he’ll have bruises running down his back for weeks. And he’s not complaining. 

But beneath the slide of tongues and the exuberant relief of this homecoming, something deep in Dean’s chest starts shifting. Like magma solidifying into rock, this is when Dean knows it’s real. Cas is real. Cas had made him real. 

“I loved you first,” Cas gets out when they’ve both broken away to breathe, foreheads pressed together because being too far apart after so long is unthinkable. 

“Maybe,” Dean concedes, also panting. He feels his lips tug up into a smirk. “But I love you more.” 

They have a very interesting way of settling that little contest. 

…………………. 

Cas stays. 

Dean is worried things will be awkward now that everything is all on the table, but Cas either is oblivious of the potential tension or simply doesn’t care for it. Knowing him, either is entirely possible. Regardless, the first night they get back to the bunker, they lie curled together in Dean’s bed. 

It’s the best sleep Dean’s gotten in years. 

The days go like this. Dean doesn’t keep a gun under the pillow anymore— doesn’t need to. He just has to peek up from where his head rests on Cas’ chest to see the angel gazing down on him with such affection that Dean’s assured Cas would never let anything hurt them. 

When the sun’s risen, Cas makes him breakfast. He does this constantly even though Dean insists he is, in a fact, a big boy and can do it all himself. 

“Just let me take care of you,” Cas will tell him with a brief, syrupy kiss. "You deserve it." And Dean will scratch the back of his neck and try not to let his whole body turn red. 

They go hunting when there’s a need. Afternoons are spent on loveseats; Cas’ head cradled tenderly in Dean’s lap, hair brushed through gently with Dean’s free hand as he scans the news for any potential trouble. And when there is some, they make a good team. 

And when there’s no hunt to be found, they go on vacation. They drive cross country just for the hell of it, and also because Dean likes to buy Cas stupid key chains at stupid gas station tourist traps. The angel will always roll his eyes when Dean opens the car door and hears the tell-tale  _ jingle-jangle _ . But eventually, he’ll plant a brief but grateful kiss on Dean’s cheek that makes his whole face hot. That’s reason enough to keep buying them, in his blushing opinion. 

Sometimes Cas has to go away for a day or so to help Jack with the whole rebuilding heaven business. When that happens, Dean will make the few hour road trip to Lawrence to check in on Sam and make sure the kid hasn’t hit another freak growth spurt. 

Visiting becomes more fun when the kid has a kid of his own. 

“We named him Dean,” Sam tells him as the two brothers stand proudly just behind the glass of the nursery. “You know, after the sausages.” 

“Yeah,” Dean chokes out. He can’t even pretend to not be crying. So he just pulls Sam into a back-clapping hug and says, “I’m just so damn proud of you, man.” 

And Dean continues to be proud when Sam goes back to law school. Gets his degree. Helps people out of bad places like he was always meant to be doing. Always has been doing— just now in a different, safer way. 

Against all odds, they get older. The Winchester brothers, long prophesied to die before even getting their first gray hair, make it to the age where those are all the hairs they have. 

“Who’s gonna hunt when I’m gone, Cas?” Dean asks one stormy night when the two of them are curled in bed. He’s been noticing a cough lately— and even though he’s scared, he doesn’t want Cas to heal it. He’s lived enough life for anyone. 

“Someone good like you will always come along, Dean,” Cas tells him, pressing a gentle kiss to his head. “Have faith.” 

And he does. 

Dean dies in the middle of summer. He does it safe in Cas’ steady arms. The angel had driven them out to a clear-skied meadow where they could gaze at the stars— knowing how comforting they were to Dean. 

“I… love… you,” he rasps, not even strong enough to turn to look at the love of his existence. But Cas does the work for him, leaning down to be in his line of vision. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” the angel tells him softly. His warm hand is a tethering point on Dean’s jacketed arm. “You can go. I love you. It’s okay.” 

On the hood of the Impala, head resting on Cas’ shoulder, he leaves this life. 

But he’s not alone for very long in the next one before Cas finds him. 

“Dean,” Cas breathes in his ear. They’re nowhere different. Still, the star-illuminated field— just Dean has his young body again, the one that doesn’t ache when Dean slams it into Cas with an embrace. 

And Cas— Cas has been holding out on him. Here, in heaven, Dean can finally see him for what he is. Colors that he has no name for echo off his wide, strong wings. They wrap around the two of them in a blanket of safety, of a love so intense it’s practically violent. 

When they can stand to have a little distance between them (which takes an unsurprisingly long time), Cas takes him on the star-studded tour of heaven. 

Bobby. 

“‘Bout time, boy,” his surrogate father greets him with a beer and a smile. 

Ellen. Jo. Ash. 

“Welcome to the Roundhouse Two-Point-Oh, you sad sack of bones.” Another beer. God, the song “Beers in Heaven” was really onto something, huh?

Charlie. 

“Come sit down at let me kick your ass at this new game!”

Everyone. 

They race down the highway to again meet them; Dean smiling so widely all the while it feels like his face will fall off. And of course, Cas holding his hand nice and steady the whole time. 

Sammy follows a few years later— looking how he did when he was just a young Stanford dropout with something to prove. The sight makes Dean laugh so hard he’s shaking them both while they hug. 

“Really, Dean? You can’t be serious for just a few minutes?” Sam questions, but it’s clear from the tilt in his voice that he’s smiling too. 

“As it is on earth, Sammy. As it is on earth.” 

And in the little house Dean and Cas have built themselves in the constellation-filled field, they are happy. They make breakfast and sit on each other’s laps and kiss and be so close together it’s hard to remember where they begin and end. Inseparable at last. 

It really is heaven.

Cas gets his garden complete with, in Dean’s opinion, stuck-up bees. Dean has to do most of the work because Cas “prefers to watch” (something he says with a leer so awfully executed Dean can’t catch his breath) but he’s happy to do it. 

Tomatoes and hyacinths and lavender and plants with scientific names Dean can’t pronounce. They go out and water them every day for the rest of forever. 

“It’s pretty isn’t it?” Dean asks once the first sprouts have come up. The two of them are sat on the porch swing, hands intertwined. 

Cas turns his head for a kiss—something Dean happily obliges. It still sends the same electric thrill through him even after all these years. 

“Yes,” Cas tells him, smiling. He looks him so deep in the eyes Dean’s heart kicks into fourth gear before he adds, “but I’ve seen prettier greens.”

……………. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading. i hope that this helped you all feel a little better-- it definitely made me feel better to write. feel free to express your thoughts in the comments; i love hearing from you all!!! 
> 
> be safe. be happy. see you around.


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